


Marathon

by mirwalker



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-11
Updated: 2011-04-11
Packaged: 2018-03-30 04:32:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3923020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mirwalker/pseuds/mirwalker
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The team juggles a blast from Jack's future and aliens running on empty.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story is set between Season One episodes Captain Jack Harkness (1.12) and End of Days (1.13).

Cardiff's Roald Dahl Plass was less busy than it first looked.

In several places near the main road, the paving stones that made up the surface of the square were stacked in neat piles as the old damaged tiles were replaced and all the grouting reapplied, section by ramshackle section. Opposite the patchwork of safety-fenced exposed sand underlayer, nearer the waterfront, a series of temporary stalls were in the process of being assembled for the weekend's arts festival. And, at the edge of the plaza, the new addition to the Wales Millennium Centre loomed large in its girdle of advertisement-skinned scaffolding, as the light, storm-whirled breeze flapped the odd tarp and loose ends of the ubiquitous safety tape.(1)

But nothing else stood or moved in the great space, as the late spring chill had kept most people at home or in the shops this evening, and the cool drizzle had convinced further masses not to brave the night.

Into this jumbled and empty silence, a drenched and dirty figure plodded, clutching himself against the wet and cold. His wild hair and ill-fitting clothes were soaked, whether from a long time in the rain, or from a swim in the River Taff, from whose direction he came. Hugging the waterfront railing and watching only his own feet, the bruised and spot-shaven man muttered to himself as he pushed forward, not even noticing he'd entered the Plass until he nearly collided with a flat of tentpoles.

As if waking abruptly, he started at the looming pile and beyond, suddenly noticing the misty glow of the oval's illuminated pillars. His manner changed as quickly, the drowsiness left his face, he laughed aloud and he hurried on into the square. Looking about wildly, he called loudly into the sky, "Jack! Captain Harkness?"

He circled in place, both excited and confused, having apparently reached his destination but not finding it to be as he expected. With growing distress, he continued shouting hoarsely, "Jack! Jack Harkness?" until his eyes finally fell upon a narrow patch of sidewalk with ecstatic recognition. He raced to base of the tall, doubly water-covered tower, and spun upon a paving stone there, still looking about expectantly. One arm tucked tightly against his chest, his other pulled a scrap of fabric from a pocket and held it over his head. He waved it frantically and repeated with his diminishing voice, "Jack Harkness? Captain? Need your help! Hello? Torchwood?"

Rainfall. Flapping tape. An empty plaza, save him.

His energy gone as quickly as it had come, the man plopped down on the curb dejectedly and looked out into the world. His tired eyes leaked raindrops of their own; and he sighed a quiet, desperate, "Cantor? Please. Need you." Seeing and sensing no response, and still clutching the fabric scrap, he finally gave in to the cold and wet, curled up on the pavement and closed his eyes.

Rainfall. Flapping tape. An entirely empty plaza again.

* * *

At various points around the Plass, CCTV cameras rotated on their mounts, ignoring the twinkling harbor lights in the background, and instead zoomed in on the otherwise un-notable unconscious man and then the swatch fluttering in his hand. After resting there a moment, all but one camera zoomed out quickly and panned the area for other weather-beaten souls. As they maintained their scans for possible witnesses, a low grinding sound heralded the slow descent of the cement square on which the man lay unmoving, as it sank into the ground and was promptly and seamlessly replaced by a passengerless copy.

On the Plass, the relative malaise continued, undisturbed.

* * *

Dripping rainwater, the invisible lift slowly lowered to floor level deep in the Hub, with one stun gun and all eyes focused on it the entire way down.

Under watchful eyes and from an arm's length, the technician quickly scanned the sopping figure, and nodded him 'clear.' The medic stepped over, squatted next to him, and cautiously took a wrist to check for a pulse. Simultaneously removing the fabric swatch, he examined it quickly before handing it over to the constable.

At the contact and sounds, the figure stirred groggily, heavy eyes searching about until they came to rest on a towering, suspendered figure. A tired smile creased his face, as his exhaustion lifted, "Can- Jack, knew t'find you." Satisfied, his eyes closed again under their own weight, as all other eyes turned toward his subject.

Captain Jack Harkness stared inscrutably across his folded arms.

* * *

Atop the Pierhead Building, beside the plaza above, but nearer the waterfront, the transmitter dutifully relayed the evening's small excitement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The BBC Hoddinott Hall was set to open in early 2009, as the permanent home to the BBC National Orchestra of Wales.


	2. Introductions

Ianto entered the conference room and dutifully set a full mug, saucer and serviette in front of each team member, each cup prepared to their particular taste. Owen fidgeted with a PDA tablet before him at the head of the table, glancing between it and medically-scribbled notes on more traditional paper. Gwen and Tosh were huddled over their respective laptops, occasionally pointing at one or another screen and whispering something back or forth. And Jack sat absorbed in the piece of fabric their number one agenda item had brought with him like a calling card. The team leader stared at it, turning it end over end, repeatedly.

No one seemed to take note of their tea service or server, even once he'd taken his seat at the table. Removing a steaming slice of supper from the cardboard box he'd also brought in with him, he tossed the carton into the center of the table, announcing, "Pizza!"

Everyone but Jack started at the sudden sound, before bashfully nodding thanks and digging into the drink or dinner before them.

Touching neither, and without looking up from his swatch, their leader asked, "So, what do we know about our John Doe?"

The team members looked around at one another, non-verbally negotiating who would be first. Having had his hands most full, Owen had been slowest to grab pizza and so was left the only person without a mouthful of bread, sauce and cheese. Sighing resignedly, he set down his intact slice as the others chewed contentedly, and picked up his notes again. "Our guest is still sleeping—apparently just from exhaustion. He's a bit dehydrated; so I have him on a saline IV; and I strapped him down so he won't hurt himself if he wakes suddenly. He's also now wearing wireless monitors; so we'll know if there's any change in his status." The Torchwood doctor indicated the tablet in his hands, whose screen showed a variety of steady real-time medical displays. He also pointed to the display on the wall, which showed a security camera view of the autopsy room, where the stranger lay quietly with said dripline, straps and other medical equipment around him.

Switching to the paper pad, he read off additional medical highlights. "He's male, Caucasian, early 30s; numerous scratches and bruises, but nothing serious. His blood composition is off; it's way too clean: little evidence of contemporary blood-soluble gas pollutants, very few synthetic substances –like he's lived in a bubble and never eaten anything but organic food, though perhaps not as much recently, as he could be in early stages of malnourishment. And his antibodies are all wrong too—he's missing a number of everyday ones we all have, and he has some I don't recognize." Owen looked up, concluding, "I'd say he's not from around here."

Smiling at Owen, or for him, Tosh jumped in, "He's not carrying any ID. And though we've confirmed he's human, his DNA, dental and fingerprints aren't in any database; and there are no Europol missing persons or Interpol APBs for anyone matching his description. As best we can tell, he's a non-person."

"And, there are these," interrupted Gwen, advancing the wall display. "He has nearly identical tattoos on each forearm, calf, and thigh, as well as across his shoulders, abdomen, chest and forehead." A collage of close-up photographs showed the described body parts, each inscribed with the same message in crude, block lettering: TORCHWOOD - COME BACK JACK.

"And the hair and the hand?" asked Ianto, working now on his crusts.

Owen put up photos of the man's several stark grey streaks, and a close-up of a mottled and curled hand. "I'm still working on the detailed cell scans; but X-ray shows that hand, and that hand alone, is suffering very advanced osteoarthritis."

"So, he's the image of health, except for prolonged dieting, his ancient hand, and some grey hair?" asked Tosh.

"Medical experiments?" pondered Gwen.

"Could be some localized form of progeria?" suggested Ianto.

"Maybe he's a circus freak on the lam," off-handed Owen as he tore hungrily into his pizza.

Gwen glared at his lack of tact and table manners, and expanded the discussion. "Jack, you've been unnaturally quiet. I wouldn't normally complain, and don't mean to tear you away from your fabric sample; but do you have any thoughts about this non-existent man who walked directly to our front door and has your name tattooed all over his body?"

The physician opened his still chewing mouth; but was cut off by the policewoman. "And Owen, we'll all thank you not to head off on some 'intriguing fetish' tangent just now."

At that moment, a series of alarms in the main chamber sounded, along with some flashing lights that indicated anything but a sexy party. Owen's tablet began beeping a split-second later, and on the security monitor, the patient stirred and let out a broken cry they could hear without the aid of any technology.

Teacups and doughy triangles dropping to the table, the team scattered to attend to varying aspects of the incident. Tosh and Ianto headed down the stairs to the various computer workstations that were screaming for attention, as Gwen and Owen continued into the medical bay. Well behind them, Jack ambled slowly out of the conference room, still carrying the cloth scrap.

From one bank of monitors, Tosh called out to no one in particular, "It's another Rift energy spike! This one is about 30% bigger than the last one, but still no more localized. The frequencies match the other recent events, just more powerful."

Next to her, Ianto added to the report, "If the pattern holds, it should subside in 5, 4, 3, 2, and…."

The claxons fell silent, and Ianto tapped a switch to kill the accompanying strobe lights. As suddenly as it had begun, the "event" had ended.

Tosh looked at Ianto, noting, "That's the fifth in two weeks; and except for the little one yesterday, they're getting much stronger."

Ianto nodded, "That 'little' one was the only one that's matched known Rift incursion patterns; the others start up randomly enough; but the duration and abrupt end don't seem so natural. Jack, does this series seem familiar to you at all? Remind you of anything?"

They both looked up expectantly, only to see their leader instead facing away from them in the archway connecting the Hub's central chamber and the stairs down into the autopsy room.

With the bells from the central chamber ended, the Hub remained filled with the chimes of medical equipment and the raspy cries from their patient.

"It's OK, calm down. We're friends," Gwen soothed, as the stranger struggled against the restraints and gaped about, terrified.

Owen stabbed at a button on one monitor, silencing the cardiac alarm that had joined the crisis chorus, and grunted toward a syringe closer to Gwen. She stepped around to where he pointed, giving the patient a clear view up to where Jack was standing. His eyes grew wide, and he immediately fell still and quiet. The medical devices followed suit quickly.

The sudden silence held everyone's attention as Ianto and Tosh joined Jack at the top of the stairs.

"Cantor, knew t'find you," the man repeated his entry line with a genuine sense of pleasure and accomplishment. And then, his tone changed quickly from relief to urgency. "Jack, you have t'come back, come back t'us."

Jack gave no reaction, except to hold up the fabric scrap. "Where did you get this? How do you have my brother's blanket?"

"Brother?" all but one of the team asked simultaneously, having instantly been distracted from the other imminent issues.

"Priorities, Jack…," scolded Gwen, meaning everyone, before turning quickly back to the unilaterally familiar guest. "You're safe, and being cared for. I'm afraid you seem to know a lot more about us, than we do about you. Do you mind telling us your name?" Seeing Owen standing ready with whatever injection she'd just handed him, she shook her head, demanding a chance to try dialogue over drugs.

The man broke his pleading gaze at Jack, and looked Gwen over intensely. "You'b… Suzie?"

"No," stated Gwen, shocked again that he knew a detail of Torchwood, and also that he would mistake her for the dead woman. "My name is Gwen."

The man glanced at Jack, and then around the room as if counting heads, checking lists and doing some numbers in his own head. He turned to Owen, asking, "You'b cold?" and was stopped from touching the medic by the still-secure restraints.

As alarm flashed over his face again, Gwen quickly explained cheerfully, "Those were just to keep you from rolling off as you slept. I guess we don't them any longer, do we?" She glanced at Jack for a possible override, and looked back to see Owen had done the same. When the physician still didn't move, she whispered, "Unless you've a medical reason, he was clean and we're all right here…"

After another responseless check with the Captain, Owen helped her remove the thick leather straps.

The man immediately drew the withered hand close against him, and noticed the IV stint in the other. He traced the line back to the clear hanging bag, and cast a suspicious look at the unpleasant-looking man silhouetted by other blinking equipment, including a screen showing a live image of him.

Now personally accused, Owen gave his defense—his explanation, "Despite the rain, you were dehydrated when you arrived; we were simply giving you some nourishing fluids while you slept."

"We know intravenous feeds, Doctor Harper," explained the man un-accusingly. "Could you give a mild painkiller for the hand? A small ibuprofen dose'd help."

The request being incredibly reasonable, Owen glanced about quickly for any objections, then looked at the team's go-to man, "Ianto, I don't keep OTC's with my—," and barely managed to catch the small pillbottle already tossed at him.

The stranger, meanwhile, had turned to his other keeper and hesitantly made another request with a warming smile. "Thank you for the care, Constable Cooper. No food since arriving; could you…?"

Before she could get out an instinctive, "Of course," or even the follow-up, "How'd you know my last name?," Jack reminded everyone that, "Actually, _we_ are asking the questions here."

Gwen chided herself for having lost sight of the larger situation, and noticed the man seemed to wilt at Jack's harsh tone, before smiling slightly again and speaking to all their questions, "Yes, yes. They call me Tylo; need strength t'tell our story." His smile faded slightly, as he added, "Ironic, probably not much time t'say it. Please?"

He was again looking directly at Jack, with an indecipherable intensity to his plea.

Everyone turned to look at their Captain, not sure what he knew or what history he had with this mysterious figure; but all were keen to be let in on the tale.

Returning the man's steady stare, Jack finally stated simply, "Conference room," and spun away in that direction.

More hurt than happy, the man looked down and half-suggested "Even something simple?"

Gwen looked up to Tosh and Ianto, reciprocating their what's-that-all-about looks, "We'll meet you up there." She stood ready to help the newcomer stand as his IV was removed.

Owen advised as he stuck a plaster on the medical wound, "Ianto, a simple broth and some decaf tea for Mr Tylo."

"Please, thank you," added Gwen and Tylo simultaneously.

* * *

Above them, dawn found the Plass waking with construction crews pushing to finish the re-paving in time for the weekend's festival.

* * *

By the time Owen and Gwen had helped their inked visitor up to the conference room, Ianto was arriving with his basic meal and another round of hot drinks for the team. Tylo sat at the table head opposite Jack, his withered hand tucked out of sight below the table, and his other shakily spooning the clear soup or delivering sips of an equally weak tea. The diner quickly realized that they were all watching him eat.

"Of course," he said with a hint of embarrassment, "You want t'hear why we sent me here." He set down the spoon, took a final faltering drink and wiped his mouth. "Thank you for the medicine n'meal," nodding to Owen and Ianto in turn.

He paused and seemed to switch into a more detached and rehearsed narration. "We sent me t'get Jack t'come back t'us," he said, nodding toward his own arms and the tattoo collage still displayed on the room's screen. "In your distant future, Jack joins the community where I live, and stays on with us for many years. We'd a good life—simple, safe… happy." A flash of genuine joy passed across his face as he remembered, fleetingly. "But, one day, we heard _they_ returned…"

"'They'?" asked Tosh, on everyone's behalf.

" _They_ ," repeated Tylo with a definitive emphasis clearly meant for Jack, who met his eye contact with only a clenched jaw. "We understood why Jack left t'fight when asked; we did. And he swore he'd return. But shortly after he left, they came t'us. Quick. Silent. Brutal..." Tylo broke his gaze at Jack, and seemed to retreat from the painful memories he only summarized.

Owen noted that his heart and respiration rates had began inching up, wireless monitors still transmitting to the tablet on the table in front of him.

"For almost a year, we fought hard; but they too much. Too many. Too…" His voiced trailed off as his expression suggested some of the horrors he recalled but could not speak.

Owen's tablet beeped briefly, before he quickly silenced it, moving slightly to the edge of his seat in case he needed to react quickly again.

Roused perhaps by the sound and movement, Tylo resumed a now tearful lock on Jack. "You promised you'd come back. We held as long as we could… We need you t'come back. You promised…"

Ianto quietly slid his handkerchief over, as everyone looked again to Jack for some indication of whether and what to do or say next.

Jack glanced down, and wry smile spread across his face as he continued to worry-rub the fabric Tylo had brought with him. "You show up with a scrap from his favorite blanket and a sob story, and expect me to follow you ahead into the midst of some epic battle?" The increasingly incensed team leader slammed his fists onto the table, and demanded, "Who do you think you are, and why the hell should I believe you?"

"Jack!" shouted Gwen, as Owen focused on readings that went from escalating to fluctuating.

Tylo gripped the table with his good hand as he smarted from a new, not remembered, pain. He took a deep, stuttering breath, and explained flatly, "You not know me yet; the cloth'b for credibility. You had it when you came t'us. I know it'b painful for you; I'b sorry. But we didn't send me here for you t'leave now. Just want you t'remember for the future: When you leave us, you must come back. Please?"

"Well, congratulations, Mr Tylo," spat the Captain sarcastically, "mission accomplished. You've delivered your message." He stood and strode from the room, suggesting to the team, "See if he knows anything more useful. We've got real problems, like Rift activity to worry about."

Eight eyes watched him go, varyingly aghast at his singular focus on the scrap, sudden mention of a family, and spiteful treatment of their battered supplicant.

"Marathon," whispered Tylo, his gaze and good hand dropping into his lap.

"I'm sorry?" asked Gwen.

The guest swallowed, and looked up with a forced smile, "Long journey, successfully completed."

The team exchanged inquisitive glances—variations on "WTF's up with Jack?" But no one had any answers; and they knew enough not to push their mysterious and moody leader for at least a little while. Instead, their enquiring minds turned back to their visitor, _despite_ Jack's instructions to find out more from him.

With a nod from Gwen, Tosh posed her burning question with a little back story. "Tylo, I am curious, if you don't mind, about how you actually got here—got now, rather. We've been having some unusual Rift activity of late, that we haven't been able to explain. Do you mind telling us a little more of how you came from your time to ours?" Her fingers were poised over her keyboard, as if to capture every insight he might utter.

"Well I'd not understand all the science; but they explained t'me like this—"

"'They'?" asked Ianto, suddenly nervous.

"Our scientists who made the travel happen," he assured, seeming to realize the potential pronoun reference confusion. Seeing everyone sigh a little, he continued his explanation. "The things n'people you find that came through the Rift, they fell through a break in spacetime, a direct connection 'tween two points. The few instances when you actually moved through yourselves so far, you literally stepped from today t'the past, and back again immediately—nothing noticeably 'tween. Like stepping through a doorway 'tween two rooms; yes?

Heads around the table nodded in agreement and understanding.

"Well, takes a tremendous amount of energy t'punch through a direct connection. We not have that kind of power; so we not able t'jump me directly from point A t'point H. We had t'pass me through all points 'tween." He gestured with his good hand to distinguish a quick jump across the table surface, versus a gradual passage along it. He retraced the longer path, adding a wilder, tumbling motion to the traveling hand. "And it'b not a controlled journey, just a strong enough push t'get me started n', hopefully, enough t'get t'the target place n'time."

"You mean you just fell backwards through time?" asked Tosh, shocked at the demonstrated voyage.

"He means where we step through a door, he got pushed down the stairs?" corrected Ianto.

"More like thrown _up_ the stairs, with great force; but yes," nodded Tylo.

The police constable leaned in, her face similarly folded up in confusion, "Hold on, for all that trouble, why not just go back to just before Jack left? Seems like that would be enough to pass along your message just a year in the past, as he was leaving, without the same energy need or risk as now?"

Tylo sat back in his chair, and rubbed his temple. "Again, details are difficult t'explain; farming is how I work. But they said that short hops'b actually more difficult. Accuracy harder than distance."

"Shotgun over sharpshooter," nodded Ianto, eliciting a wide-eyed glance from Tosh.

"Ok, so why now? Why here?" Gwen continued.

"Targeting imprecise; so we needed good-sized window when Jack's in known place for long length of time. And we knew that Jack's time here at Torchwood's one of his longest stints of freedom in any single place; so this period in your history our best chance of connecting with you."

"The largest landing zone," nodded their tech expert.

"And the tattoos?"

"No guarantee the trip or the finding you'd succeed. We knew enough about this time period that any government agency who found…"

"…any significant part of you," elaborated the medic.

Tylo nodded matter-of-factly, and finished his sentence, "…able t'pass the message t' 'Torchwood.' We needed brief message, specific enough but not risk giving away any details of the future." With clear soreness and a hefty dose of self-consciousness, he shifted some hair down over the billboard on his forehead. "Not pretty, but best we'd do." Through his greyed bangs, he glanced nervously in the direction Harkness had gone.

"I don't mean to belittle the courage or risk you've taken, Tylo; but I can't help but wonder, why you?" gently probed the team's Number Two. "Again, no offense, but of all people to send back, you'd think an engineer or historian or somebody else would make more sense, be better able to handle problems that came up. Why a farmer? Why you?"

Again looking after the team's Number One, Tylo clearly struggled to answer the question, before finally saying simply, "Expendable."

"Because your hand decreased your ability to fight?"

"No, if he could farm with it, he could fight 'them' with it," deduced Gwen. "Why you, Tylo?"

"Whether or not trip worked, one farmer no great loss. Besides, my arm's not like this before."

" _They_ did this to you, during the fighting?" asked Tosh.

"No; if they get you, no… nothing. This," he gestured weakly with it, "travel hazard."

Before anyone else could continue the casual if persistent interrogation, he sighed and admitted, "Very tired; do you have a place…?"

"Of course," nodded Gwen, looking to Ianto, who nodded toward the sitting area and its futon sofa that many of them had caught catnaps on.

Sans their still-hermetic leader, the team moved to the main level computer stations, while Ianto settled their guest into the makeshift guest room.

"Is it ok to leave him unattended now that he's up and about?" asked Tosh, not believing but knowing enough to be cautious about having a relative stranger loose in the Hub.

Looking on without appearing to do so, Owen reminded everyone that, "He's still wearing the wireless monitors in case he has any problems, or tries to make a run for it. Beyond the security camera I'm sure Ianto can train on him, I can set the sensors to sound if he exerts at all."

Ianto joined them, informing the physician, "I've set him up with a pillow and blanket, but his hand and head seem to be bothering him. You still have the painkillers?"

Owen rolled his eyes, and turned toward the patient. "Alright, I'll double check the contacts while I'm at it."

Gwen looked after him, to where the visitor lay in obvious discomfort. "We need to find out how long he's been here—been now, that is. That might give us some insight into the odd Rift activity; see if there's any connection."

"You think he's related?" asked Tosh, calling up a comparative graph of the recent readings.

"Well, Ianto did use the shotgun metaphor. Maybe the same shot that got him here is also causing the other fluctuations…"

Ianto nodded and reminded them of another mystery, "Is anyone else curious about the blanket and the 'brother'?"

Before the others could agree or speculate, Owen shouted behind them, "No, please don't!"

He was quickly drowned out by the sound of weak tea and broth making a projectile reappearance, certainly on the concrete floors and probably on the critical doctor.

"Eeeeeeeew…"


	3. Old Friends Who Just Met

"So, Jack," immediately began his second-in-command as she walked into his office, "I'm thinking that a little backstory might help us better understand what's going on here, and how our body-art boy fits into it. Anything you'd care to contribute to that effort?" She dropped into the single, rolling chair opposite his cluttered desk, not giving him a chance to send her away or to insert his own topic of conversation.

Silence hung between them for several moments, held in place by the ongoing battle of wills: his not to be forced to do or say anything, versus hers simply focused on causing some reaction. And since even his continued quiet was some kind of response to her question and presence, she knew she'd already won.

"I don't know him," Jack stated firmly, without acknowledging her triumph.

"Yet," she pointed out, still a little surprised at how easily she had come to drop time travel references so casually. "And the blanket?" _The brother?_

Jack let the fabric fall to the desktop, indicating the subject should follow.

No such luck; but Gwen knew she'd probably earned the only point she'd get today regarding their visitor. Instead, she switched topics in hopes of scoring a second time with a quick transition to another action item.

"Are 'they' responsible for the odd Rift activity we've been having?"

A look of recollection passed over his face; but she decided it was simply his remembering, briefly, that there were larger issues afoot than his sibling. The thought-beyond-self was short-lived, though; quickly, he was again stone-faced and silent.

Impatient with the game however familiar it was becoming with the enigmatic leader, Gwen sat forward and steepled her fingers in his direction—as close to begging as she would come. "Jack I'm grasping at straws here, trying to make sense of it all. And I get the impression you know pieces I'm missing. So as curious as I absolutely am, I am not trying to dig into your family history… or future, _except_ where that impacts us, here, today. So, do 'they' or the sibling or Tylo's appearance have any connection to what we've been experiencing? 'Cause we've got mysteries piling up and Rift activity building up; and the closest thing we have to an expert has just fallen into a poorly-timed sulk."

He continued to mimic the other furniture in the room, differing only in that he was not being useful.

If not duty, collegiality or morality, perhaps vanity as a pressure point, she resolved. "And, frankly, funk is not a pretty look on you."

Initially, there was no reaction; but soon, the last critique, or its combination with other motivations, brought him to quiet life. He spoke flatly and without expression, as if reciting prepared lines. "Ianto and Tosh say the Rift events are recurring on a fairly regular pattern, and except for the small incident that was probably Tylo's arrival, have been growing exponentially in energy output." He looked directly at her for the first time in the conversation, reinforcing the fact that, however distracted he had seemed, he had indeed been paying attention. "Natural variations in the Rift don't behave like that…"

"So there's a someone—" she continued the deduction.

"Or some _thing_ -"

"Behind this." She nodded, now that he'd caught up to where she'd begun the intervention/interview. She arched her eyebrows, inviting him to continue the long-requested and –avoided elucidation.

"And artificial manipulation of the Rift might not have an immediately traceable focal point," he summarized yet still more of their tech experts' reports to date. "But even before we can triangulate a source, destination or cause, we can detect the energy vector."

"The direction the Rift energy is moving?" she asked, vaguely recalling the term from a long-forgotten physics class.

Jack nodded, "Focus on tracking the flow of the Rift currents; are they coming into our spacetime, or heading out?" As he fell silent again, his gaze also dropped back to the textile on his desk. He had spared her all the attention he would for that moment.

"Excellent," Gwen thanked with only slight satisfaction. "We'll get right on that." She considered pushing him on the more tangible tale on their task list; but, she'd already used that as the opening shot to make engaging the Rift mystery more palatable for him. No, she'd pulled more out of him than she'd actually expected, and guessed that a little time, pride recharge and perhaps success on the Rift activity might encourage him to open up a little more on the personal questions. Smiling smugly for what triumph she'd achieved on one front, she'd wait for what might come on others.

* * *

Ianto heard the shower turn off, and called out to their guest, "Tylo, there's a towel and fresh set of clothes on the counter. We're still analyzing the clothes you arrived in; so this is another set of loaners. Let me know if I haven't got the sizes right."

"Thank you. Again," said the softer voice from around the corner, with a few even softer grunts and rustles as he donned the fresh outfit. "Do you think he'll warm up t'me?"

"Owen doesn't like casual contact with other people on the best of days, much less a little sick. But he's getting cleaned up, his clothes will wash, and he is a doctor—a little mess is part of that profession."

"True… Meant Jack."

"Oh…" Ianto considered how cold, even angry, their boss had seemed at Tylo's appearance, story and memento-carrying. It wasn't that Jack couldn't be suddenly sharp or distant—the few years Ianto had known him were certainly littered with mysterious turns of temper from the man in charge. But he had seemed especially quick and consistent with his passionate disinterest in this unusual, if Torchwood-typical, visitor. Not sure why the Harkness-odd reaction was so strong and sticky in this case, he really couldn't say whether, when or how Jack's attitude might change.

Tylo entered the hallway, and seemed unsurprised to find the team's logistics expert lost in thought right there. "You like him?" he asked, with no further transition than stepping through the doorway.

Jolted from his reverie, Ianto answered automatically, "He's bright, brave, and more than a little mysterious..." The damp, but less pale Tylo stood listening to his catalog with a knowing, if weary, curiosity. "Wait you mean something more?" Ianto realized.

Tylo turned toward the main part of the Hub, presuming they would want to give him yet another inspection, post-regurgitative assault on their medical officer. "He'b rather harsh so far; just wondered how he treats you all…" His face and voice held no judgment in the critique of his welcome back by someone he apparently knew well. Or would one day. He continued walking, slowly and with his good hand lightly tracing their progress along the passing walls and bannisters.

"He means well," Ianto found himself excusing. "His… intensity is just the way he expresses his… passion—for the work, his purpose, his people."

"He feels passionately 'bout you?" asked the visitor, with the same innocent inquisitiveness and steady movement forward.

"Well, that's not actually what I—" _What did I mean?_ realized the Welshman. "He's—" he began again, before trailing off, again. _Of course he cares about us. Look at the way he fights for us: side-by-side, if not in front of us—in harm's way; not just shouting instructions from the safety of the office or the rear. No, he's right there with us, even if he doesn't share every detail of his knowledge. Or his plan. Or his personal history._

_But even if he's not the most disclosive of bosses, look at the way he chose each of us, plucked us out of our mundane life to become part of this amazing place; he could have had anyone, but he picked us. He picked me…_

_And there's that look he can give when things go really right—a confidence, pride even. Or, in the really hard moments—and there had been many of those in the short time he'd followed the Captain, with a hand on your shoulder, for just a moment, Jack shares a rush of excitement. Or he flashes those eyes and that smile, and you can physically feel the connection; and you know that he's glad you're there too. Glad to have you. To have me…_

Having descended into the medical bay and reached the exam table, Tylo took Ianto's automatically offered arm and climbed stiffly up onto the gurney.

With a faraway look still in his eyes, the contemporary, single man doubted aloud, "I still can't believe that Captain Jack Harkness actually settles down…"

"There'b quiet moments in history, when even the wildest o'time agents can make a home for a while," reflected Tylo.

Drawn fully back to the present by the two-way interaction, Ianto was yet again unclear to which time period their visitor was referring: Torchwood's now, Tylo's future or some other epoch altogether.

"Ianto, can I speak with you and Tosh for a moment please?" ordered Gwen, sticking her head around the corner above them, and then disappearing again without waiting for a response.

Duty called, and Ianto abruptly focused back on his larger here and now. Making sure the guest was securely on the bed, he stepped away and explained, "I'll let Owen know you're here, and see if there's anything he suggests you can keep down…"

Tylo nodded his thanks again, not quite hiding a grimace, perhaps at the mention of food's coming and going.

Ianto looked back over his shoulder at the quiet man, his own face a little contorted at the rush of new the feelings and possible relations he had not before considered.

* * *

"Sorry again, Dr Harper," whispered Tylo, as the freshly showered and dressed physician joined him in the white-tiled well moments later.

"It looks like Ianto got you cleaned up as well," Owen observed sourly, acknowledging but not forgiving the incident of a quarter hour before. Gathering supplies for a few more tests and a new dripline, he informed the patient, "But I think we'll keep you off food entirely for a little while, nonetheless."

"Not hungry now, anyway," admitted Tylo, resignedly.

"How _are_ you feeling?" asked Owen, as he got the nutrient drip in, and drew a fresh vial of blood.

"Achy, mostly tired. A little satisfied."

"At throwing up all over me?"

"No," he looked shocked at the suggestion. "Finding Jack."

Owen glanced at him with more than a little doubt at the source of his pleasure. "And when _was_ the last time you actually ate?"

"Many years from now," chuckled the patient. His laugh ended in a wheeze, as he seemed to will himself to breathe. He noticed Owen's concerned look, smiled weakly and offered, "You'b all very nice. He said you were."

"Jack talked about us, did he?" inquired Owen, actually intrigued now, and donning a stethoscope to check yet another of his patient's troubled systems. "Or _will_ talk about us…" To feed his own curiosity, and keep the air moving through the apparently struggling lungs, the doctor continued his interrogation, careful to listen for any signs of imminent gastric distress. "Deep breaths as you can… Good… When you first came to, you asked whether I was 'cold' yet; what did that mean?"

"Trying t'know when we were." Ragged inhale.

"So, at some point down the road I get 'cold' and stay 'cold' enough to be noteworthy into the far future?" Owen asked skeptically, quite certainly he didn't want to know how that could be possible. If it were true. _How could it be true?_

Tylo just looked at him with an audible exhale, and without a change in his tired expression.

"You're not going to tell me; are you?" deduced Harper, "Even though I'm saving your life."

Tylo smiled with what Owen saw as a mix of apology, thanks and resolution. "Can't save each other, Doctor. Not how it works. Not everyone lives forever. Or dies…"

Owen stared at him for a moment, not sure how to take his last statement. Was it a clue, an insight offered despite his apparent hesitation to say more about the future? Or was it another odd ramble of man out of place in so many ways?

"Speaking of," Owen, he tried changing the subject, slightly, "If you won't say anything about future me, what can you tell me of today's Captain Jack Harkness? You called him 'Cantor'…"

Another knowing, but silent, smile.

"How's about lottery numbers? Premier League tables? Christmas chart toppers?" grinned the opportunistic winner, to no avail with his potential source of insider knowledge. "No? Well, I had to try…"

Tylo nodded in unsurprised acknowledgement.

Flashing a penlight across the wise, but silent, eyes, Harper decided to model the disclosure he sought, by reversing the flow of information. "Well, how about I tell you about you? Your heartbeat and breathing are a little irregular; and, congratulations, you've also got a cataract in one eye."

"So this century _not_ meant t'b'fuzzy?"

"A comedian and a farmer, are we?" chuckled the doctor, making a note of the latest observations in the computer. He tapped each automated warning displayed as the medical records system's algorithms grew increasingly alarmed with the continued pattern of unhealthy entries. Concerned even without the software's obvious agitation, he returned to his questions in order to fill the silence. "The drip should help with your hydration and nutrition, but it'll take a while before you feel noticeably better... Just so I know what we're up against with your last, future meal: When exactly did you get here? You found us last night, but there hadn't been any temporal activity since the day before. Were you walking around for a day 'til you got to us?

Tylo nodded, "Only his stories t'guide. Found the river and followed, hoping…"

"So the lost soup and tea aside," Owen turned back to confirm, "it's been at least thirty-odd hours since you've eaten?"

Tylo shrugged tentatively, probably not actually clear on how much time had passed given his travel, unconsciousness, general state of health and lack of access to windows.

Owen couldn't help staring at him—so full of invaluable information of what was to come, but seemingly oblivious to the details of the here and now. The physician didn't know whether to envy or pity the patient. No, he pitied the man. And was irritated that he wouldn't share what useful attributes he did have. _What opportunities those casual memories could open up…_

"You both look a lot happier than when last we saw you," observed Tosh as she came down the stairs without further announcement. She smiled at Tylo as she handed over a tablet to the physician. "I've sent the earlier tissue analysis results to your pad."

"Both Mr Jones and Dr Harper'b very helpful, and forgiving," nodded Tylo.

"Don't let Owen's crusty outer shell fool you," Tosh smiled at him, casting the doctor a knowing, even hopeful, glance. "Deep down, I'm sure he can be genuinely caring…"

Looking between the two Torchwood teammates, Tylo smiled at her suggestion, before the encouragement seemed to shift, as if wiped away by some sudden sad recollection.

Tosh wondered at the apparent change as Owen half-exclaimed, "Shite!," his eyes wide as he scrolled through the series of stats and graphs. "Is this everything?" he demanded, almost accusingly.

"Yes," she turned to him and nodded, a little surprised by and hurt at his disbelief or disapproval. "The micro scans took a little longer to process; but that's the results from everything you've uploaded so far."

He continued not to look at either of them, as he focused intently and irritably on the information before him.

"All the analyses are open at my station if you want to see for yourself…," she offered meekly.

"I do," he snapped, as he turned and jogged up and out to the Hub's central room.

Tosh watched him go, not thinking about the hurt on her face until she turned back to find Tylo watching her. She couldn't read the attentive, informed but oddly non-judgmental look. "I brought you a mint," she offered hurriedly, to fill-in the uncertainty with hospitality, and handed him the cellowrapped red and white candy. "Might help with the… aftertaste."

"Dr Harper suggested no food at all…" Tylo tried to resist.

"Don't eat it; just suck on it. Peppermint's supposed to be good for the digestive system anyway," she persisted, smiling and unwrapping one for herself.

"Toshiko!" thundered Harper's voice from above, causing her to drop the sweet. "Suck it," she whispered quietly, before putting on a happy face for Tylo, and heading upstairs with a brisk, irritated and resigned step.

* * *

Owen stood in front of the team, the varied readings and cellular images crowding the screen behind him.

"Why haven't we seen anyone else with similar time travel complications?" asked Ianto, taking in the wall of flashing, bold and angry red-colored data.

"The only way I can explain it is that it's like he said: jumping point-to-point, versus falling through. As he moved through time, different parts of his body went in and out of those different times for even brief instants, causing him to age differentially. Beyond what we can see externally," the physician curled his own left hand and gestured toward his eye and hair, "Tosh's cellular analysis shows that his body is a intricate patchwork of relative ages."

"Our scientists call it 'temporal friction,'" offered Tylo, who suddenly stood in the doorway. He sounded slightly out of breath, and leaned against the frame—having come as far as his strength and lack of invitation to the meeting could carry him. "From the impacts and interactions with all the times along the way."

"Interesting," acknowledged Gwen dryly, as Tosh and Ianto helped their visitor take a seat at the table. "But I'm guessing the story doesn't end there?"

The guest settled uncomfortably into his chair, and looked up at Owen with a prescient forgiveness. The doctor nodded to Gwen, as he concluded that, "The mix of older and younger cells and tissues are having more and more trouble working together. As they struggle to function, much less cooperate, and gradually stop, it's going to get increasingly painful for you, Tylo."

"We knew this a one-way trip."

"How bad is it?" asked Tosh, increasingly clear on the demeanor, but not sure on the details.

"One kidney is already showing signs of failure," catalogued Owen. "The cartilage in both knees and around some lumbar vertebrae is almost non-existent. He's covered it well, but he's already blind in one eye. And, though his metabolism is wildly erratic, his digestive system is virtually shut down. Tylo, I'm frankly amazed you're moving and talking at all. Beyond the autonomic functions, you have to be in excruciating pain."

"You have good pills," the conversation's topic smiled weakly.

"And the prognosis?" Gwen drilled down quickly.

Tylo nodded Owen to be honest.

"I can treat the symptoms, to a point; but there's nothing I can do for the underlying cause. He's dying, cell by tissue by organ."

"Got t'see Jack again, t'give the message," summarized Tylo a little differently. _Success._

"Marathon," Gwen tallied the costs of that long victorious march.


	4. Collections & Connections

The event set-up team swarmed onto the Plass, advancing foot-by-foot as the paving crew finished, racing to set up tents, stages and other festival infrastructure by torch-, street- and moonlight. Blessedly, the previous night's rain had passed and mostly dried; but this was small comfort to the organizers, already well behind schedule to be ready for the morning, and now paying extra for last minute and late night installation.

Not all evidence of refurbishment would be gone by kickoff; but the larger construction pieces that could not be removed without creating further delay, were at least out of the way and could be decorated over so as not to detract from the space or look. In some ways, thought one of the logistics managers as he peered out over his clipboard, it actually was easier to remove, deliver, assemble and decorate on the now uniformly flat and attractive space, now that the foot and vehicle traffic along the waterfront were lighter because of the late hour.

All told, this annual gathering would be a good christening and test for the Plass' new surface—if everything went according to plan. "Move that bloody loader," he began to shout, running into the hive of activity to head off a potential glitch and the loss of even more precious time.

* * *

Meters below, other shouts echoed into the evening. In an instant, Tylo had begun screaming hoarsely over the klaxons that again filled the Hub. Gwen watched helplessly as his body seemed unsure what would bring it the most relief: curling into a tight fetal position or overextending itself in every direction.

All she could do was try to ensure that his panicked folding and stretching did not slam him into the table and chairs from which he'd slid to the floor. "Owen!" she shouted again, wondering what was taking him so long to return with something—anything to help Tylo's apparent reaction to the Rift activity that had drawn Tosh and Ianto back to the monitoring equipment downstairs. And still no sight of or sound from their withdrawn leader.

The doctor crested the stairs at a full run, a travel med kit sliding to a stop beside the patient as he did.

Sensing her judgment at his delayed response, Harper offered as he prepped the injection. "I heard Ianto and Tosh babbling at each other as I passed. This episode is lasting longer than the others, much longer and stronger; something's changed."

"And Tylo's suffering for it," she stated the obvious, also reminding Owen of that focus in the crisis.

As if on cue, their visitor began to settle, despite the continued flashing lights and excited chatter from their tech crew. Harper stowed the syringe, and reached for the computer tablet compiling readings from the sensors scattered across the prone figure before them.

Watching his brow furrow even more at whatever the screen told him, and hearing the excited chatter from the computer station one level down, Gwen considered how they seemed to have no lack of information about the escalating and yet deteriorating situations—plural—facing them. What they needed in quantity, and what they continued to lack, were explanations.

* * *

"He's broken his more aged arm," Owen reported, stepping toward the huddle as he ran his hands over his tired face. "The bone had degraded so much, it fractured on impact with the floor, I guess. I've sedated him lightly to keep him still…"

Despite his gruff demeanor and direct dislike at being vomited on, the physician's displeasure at his patient's worsening condition was evident. His teammates could read the professional concern behind his fatigue and frustration; they suspected there was genuine compassion under there somewhere as well. His expectant look at them suggested they should return their attention to other topics.

Ianto resumed his summary, "So… with the exception of the one small, more typical blip the day before Tylo showed up—"

"Which we now think was, in fact, his arrival in our time..." noted Tosh.

"Yes. All the rest have been very unusual in that, while there certainly were fluctuations in the Rift energy readings during them, the net levels of each incident were negative. And, with each incident the net negative has gotten larger."

"Something is absorbing Rift energy?"

"Or diverting it. Or consuming, cancelling or otherwise using it up. Yes."

"So Jack was right about its vector…," deduced Gwen. _The old boy wasn't so totally checked out as he seemed intent on being._ But, "If it's going somewhere, can we tell where it's going?"

"Or not coming from anymore?"

"I thought the Rift was centered here in the Hub?" the newest team member wondered aloud, quite sure she didn't understand anything beyond the broadest picture of the phenomenon at the center of their work.

"True, but it isn't a single point here either," Tosh tried to explain as best she understood it. The detailed data on their screens were easy enough to comprehend as discrete measures; but the overarching patterns, much less the underlying causes, were much less clear. She took a breath, and tried to paint a 3D picture. "I find it helpful to think of the Hub as being at the energy epicenter; but if you want to think about the Rift like a geologic fault line, it runs well out into the harbor and a little further inland as well."

"So…?" Gwen asked, still not having enough information to make the leap to explanation or action.

"So," summarized Ianto, "it's a good guess that whatever is happening, is happening near the Rift. We're likely looking for something new and different going on fairly nearby and starting recently."

"The first unusual, net-negative incident was just under two weeks ago."

"What's started or changed in the area about that time? Anything else that might be connected?" asked Gwen, finally feeling like they were getting somewhere with this investigation.

Tosh pulled up a calendar, several news, and a few about-town events websites. "Let's see, two weeks ago was… The new chippy opened in the shops upstairs... Senedd session resumed… Shakespeare Day 'act outs' across the city... Rugby Millennium Magic…" She scrolled through various other miscellaneous events and occurrences, from cultural calendars and police blotters. "Fairly quiet actually; nothing of any note anywhere. This weekend's Art Festival is really the kickoff for the spring social season." She looked up, disappointed the clues weren't panning out any better.

But their second-in-command was deep in thought in a good way… "The Festival! Coming and going the past week, I've heard the builders and organizers bickering about whether the Plass would be ready in time."

Ianto picked up the synthesis, typing wildly on his workstation. "The Rift activity began just after the Plass resurfacing project began, and right about the time they enclosed the new concert hall."

"You think Auntie is up to something?" pondered Owen, through squinted eyes.(1)

"No," Gwen concluded quickly, as she sensed they were closing on something important. "Given its proximity to us, Tosh and I went through all the construction and renovation plans before they were approved; there was nothing alien or otherwise suspicious in any of it. And we've spot-checked the construction several times to make sure they're sticking to the plans."

Tosh was typing furiously on her computer, as building plans, permits and material lists flew past. Finally, she stabbed at the screen, a manifest of supplies delivered to the construction site. "Here's something: The new grout that's being used between the pavers on the Plass, it's silicon-based. The plans said it was more eco-friendly and more durable; but the special refinement is also significantly more expensive than the standard grade."

"So, we'll have luxury dirt among the stones upstairs; so what?" asked the rapidly losing interest physician.

"Silicon is conductive," explained Ianto, "at least of electrical energy. With just a few tweaks to the formula, it could carry temporal energy."(2)

All four faces slowly turned upward as the possibility settled across them.

"The entire Oval is going to be part of a transmission grid?"

"And paid for with Council monies!" Owen half-raged.

"Actually, the special grade of grout is being underwritten by a private sponsor…," corrected their computer whiz, already turned back to the investigation. A few more keystrokes, and she pointed to a string of text on the large screen. "A collection of nearly a dozen companies across the city."

Gwen's gaze took in their two most computer-savvy colleagues, "Tosh, you check out that grout; Ianto, keep digging for information on these generous donors. Owen, make sure our guest is comfortable and then grab a field interrogation kit. We're going to do some midnight surprise records audits…"

* * *

When the first address on record proved a literal dead end, the at-base investigative duo sent the field team to a series of other empty offices and mailboxes. The attempt to hide the true source of the funds was as obvious as it was effective. And, though informed, their Captain remained uninterested and unhelpful.

Eventually, Gwen had ordered everyone to bed for the remainder of the night, in hopes a fresh start might be more productive. Owen had turned in without a word; but she'd had to order Tosh and Ianto to at least trade off sleep shifts as they continued to work back through complex corporate records and material analyses. She'd even managed a few hours of fitful sleep herself, before another round of Rift activity had woken everyone, and further weakened their guest.

Setting down the cup of electrolyte water, she ran a hand gently over his damp, warm forehead. "Tylo, are sure there's nothing else you can tell us about what we're experiencing now? Does any of this seem familiar to you? Sound like something Jack mentioned to you?" She was frustrated and fading; he was just fading. And she was growing desperate to tap the knowledge he might take with him, as much for their larger duty as to end it and his suffering.

"Not t'interfere," he reminded softly.

"Well, I hate to surprise you with this," she chuckled with no small amount of seriousness, "but by coming _back through time_ , you have changed things."

"Here t'change future, not today," he countered.

"Your people picked a good man to send back on their behalf," she acknowledged as she took a seat beside him, and took his hand to offer what tactile comfort she could. "You're strong, smart and stubborn as all get out, even chock full of strong meds…"

"Tell me 'bout Jack?" Tylo asked, without any reaction to her compliments. Gwen couldn't tell if he was intentionally changing the subject, or just acting from a less conscious focus as he fought against the sleep he probably desperately needed.

"Smitten with him already?" she laughed. "Most people take a little longer to fall under his spell."

"Not yet," said Tylo confidently. "51st Century pheromones not so special in… future. You have someone special?"

"Aye, my boyfriend, Rhys. Speaking of, it's been a while; I should probably let him hear from me," as she fumbled in her pockets for the phone.

"Children?"

"No, thank goodness," she smiled, as she sent her likely worried beau a text, not wanting to wake him simply to get into a long explanation when there was no easy explanation. She glanced up at Tylo, who was still looking at her with perhaps a little surprise. "Why do you ask?" she wondered suddenly. "Tylo, do you know whether I will have any? When? How many?" She paused, daring to ask the next question. "Who with?"

His eyes closed, and his face gave her no indication about whether and what he knew of her possible progeny. "I'd a daughter," he said simply, with a new sadness layered into his fatigue.

The disclosure was as unexpected as it was understated. Gwen swallowed, and immediately followed up on the novel opportunity. "What's her name, then?"

"Gwen..."

"Hold on! Are you speaking to me? Or was that her name?" Her eyes grew large, as she shook his hand for some clarity. "Am I like your great-grandmum or something?"

"No blood relation; he chose the name," he explained with a quick grimace, perhaps realizing he'd shared something he shouldn't.

"'He'? Who's 'he'?" she asked with curiosity, as Tylo's eyes opened with a sadness she hadn't seen since he last looked at… Jack.

"Tired," he whispered, pulling his good hand free and turning away.

"Tylo," she sighed, suddenly understanding so much more of what he'd risked on this journey, and why. She placed a hand gently on his, and looked up in the direction of their sulking connection to the future. "That's why _you_ got sent… You all hoped you might still have some connection to him that others wouldn't. That he'd listen to you."

The visitor just lay there, not needing her exposition to remind him of his goal, risk or reception.

"And look how he's greeted you," she named for him.

With a gentle squeeze, she took a deep breath, stood and turned to march to a certain office and give a certain man a piece of her mind.

* * *

But, she was stopped by an impromptu meeting of the team, none of whom had been able to get back to sleep after this last alarm, and instead were discussing their situation over tea in the main chamber.

"The silicon they're using on the Plass does seem to have some reaction to the Rift energy. There was definitely some conduction during that spike," reported Ianto. He held up a little vial of the sand-looking material, while pointing to a map of the plaza above them. "I doubt it's a coincidence; but it doesn't yet tell us what its purpose is."

Owen rubbed his bleary eyes, and summarized with typical dour directness, "So all we know is that we have increasingly frequent and intense Rift activity, centered somewhere around the actual Rift. We have a mystery entity lacing a public space with an advanced temporal energy conductor; and despite the crowds above, the only person who seems to be aware of that activity is the time traveling, tattooed and terminally ill farmer wandering our headquarters…"

Tosh swallowed, and added another dire element to their puzzle. "And whatever is going on, it's nearly ready. The crews worked through the night ahead the Festival; they're going to be finished with the fundamental Plass work within the next couple of hours."

"We're on a very short countdown down to something; and if they know anything, neither Jack nor Tylo is talking," Gwen vented, pacing with hands on hips.

"I could make Tylo talk," suggested their physician. He said it without malice or glee; just offered the possibility matter-of-factly. "It seems our options, and time, are running short. He doesn't have long either; and it wouldn't take a big dose on top of what he's already on…"

Gwen wanted to gape at his idea, but couldn't really argue.

"Tylo and his people knew enough about this time period to send him here, to dress him appropriately, and to accurately determine which team members we were," Ianto reminded, in apparent agreement. "They might know more. It certainly couldn't hurt to ask again."

"Hold on," interjected the police constable who'd last been with patient under discussion. "Just because we have a mystery of unknown intent, doesn't mean we have to resort to forcible interrogation on the off-chance Tylo knows something useful…"

"Jack could ask him," suggested Tosh, looking at the office doorway, where the Captain now stood as if summoned. He looked like he'd missed a nap or two, in favor of one strong drink or more.

"I certainly have questions for him; but it's not about Rift energy," Harkness stated.

"Jack," Gwen reminded, presuming he may have been listening to their updates. "Whatever your issues with him, we could at least learn that we don't need to worry about this construction or activity. And," she stepped closer to him and dropped her voice. "I think he would listen to you in particular."

"What she means," narrated Owen, clearly tired and tired of talking in circles, "Is that you might be able to get more out of him than any of us could, because you are his husband!"

"What?!" shouted Tosh, on her and Ianto's behalf, as Gwen glared at him, disappointed and shocked, but not altogether surprised that he would be unable—or unwilling—to keep the confidence.

"What?" demanded Jack, unsure if Owen was just trying to be spiteful.

"I have monitors on Tylo, remember? I heard what he told you…" Owen explained to Gwen especially. If he felt any regret at letting slip the cat, he had nonetheless done so, and so better to make it work for them all. Pursing his lips for resolve, he opened the bag fully, "It would seem, Captain, that our mononymous guest is actually a future Mister Harkness. Congratulations."

He glanced at his colleagues with his patented there-I've-said/done-it look. "My point is that it's probably not the only interesting tidbit he's failed to share with us. If he knows you and your history so well, Jack, he might know something about the current situation that could help us, as payback for care if nothing else."

"For all his subtlety, Jack," conceded Gwen, almost despite her better judgment, "Owen has a point. If this Rift Activity is as significant as it seems to be becoming, he likely does know something about it from your eventual stories. If he wants you and the rest of the world to last long enough to meet him, there's probably something he could tell us that would help without badly breaking his non-interference rule."

She stepped up to look Jack directly in the eyes. "And _he_ came back, specifically; he took the risk and is paying the price for trying to get you to hear his message. Perhaps if you'll listen to him about the future—just give him that—he'll share what he knows to help us now. He came back not just for you, but _to_ you. Go to him, for everyone's sake."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. An older nickname for the British Broadcasting Corporation (BBC), whose Wales Orchestra was to be housed in the new hall. The villain in the Tenth Doctor's _The Idiot's Lantern_ (2.7) played on this maternal image.
> 
> 2\. Silicon is also the eighth most common element in the universe by mass, and so would be known to scientific cultures anywhere.


	5. Seduction Deduction

He didn't need the internal surveillance footage from the Hub's security systems, or the live location data from the medical sensors. Jack only needed to follow the quiet rasp of labored breathing, amplified by the cavernous heights of the cold storage morgue. Holding the IV bag he'd been smart enough to take with him when he slipped out of the exam room, the future farmer leaned low against one tall wall of little doors in the room of mysteries. Apparently its cool silence was appealing to a wide range of ages. And states of living.

Before the Captain could speak, Tylo asked, "Which one for me?," gesturing to the collection as he continued to stare across the lofty vault. "No matter, really," he shook his head, "but perhaps one nearer t'the harbour." He finally looked up toward Jack, perhaps to see what reaction the talk of his absence might elicit, as the fact of his presence had brought him nothing but harsh words.

Ignoring the bait, Jack focused on a different question of life and death. "You brought me a piece of my little brother's favorite blanket; I'd know it anywhere. What do you know about him?"

Tylo looked at him with unwavering eyes, clearly intending to divulge nothing. "Told you; just needed t'get your attention."

Unsatisfied, Harkness pressed further. "Not good enough, farmer boy. What do you know of him in the future? Is he alive? Do you know where he is?"

Tylo furrowed his brow, struggling to find the right words, or to find words at all if he continued to be in pain. Whether by resolve of will, inability to speak or lack of information to share, he remained silent, and just turned his gaze back to the wall of people-sized drawers.

Desperately wanting answers, Jack realized he could hardly threaten the pale man before him with pain or death; he was already facing both and holding his tongue, admirably. In trying to strong-arm the visitor, he might actually be offering a relief. No, threats weren't going to work; and a different tack demanded a different distance.

Sighing, Jack walked over and sat down next to Tylo, leaning against the rows of artifacts of adventures past and yet to come. "Ok then. You called me 'Cantor,' a name you would only know if-" He couldn't bring himself to speak the possibility of that occasion, even if it now seemed to have come to pass years in the future, with this unlikely figure. "Were you ever going to tell me that we're… a 'we'?"

Tylo almost blushed, partly disappointed that the team had discovered, or perhaps moreso that Jack had been informed of, that need-to-know information. Honestly, and more deeply, he was also pleased to finally hear the Torchwood leader acknowledge some connection.

"Would it make any difference?" Tylo mimed an over-the-top, if clearly low-energy, introduction, "'Hello from your future; need your help, but can't tell you anything more than that I'b your spouse for a dozen years.' Would it really help?"

"I guess not," Jack acknowledged. "You do seem to know me well enough to know what will definitely and what won't get my attention…" While intended to be ingratiating, the observation was also true.

They sat a moment in silence, shoulders just touching, when Tylo whispered, "I know I'b not strike you as your usual type, not yet; and you'b not yet the man I'm t'know too. But so touched by your brother's scrap, I can see even now your same big heart-one of many reasons t'love you: your generosity, loyalty, the complete ferocity of your love."

This was not where Jack had expected or intended the conversation to go. Perhaps a little about "them" as a couple, to play on that connection. Perhaps some flattery of Tylo, to praise more information from him. But he himself was never supposed to be the topic of conversation; his own braggadocio was never meant as an invitation to in-depth analysis.

Tylo continued nonetheless. "But for all the joy it creates and carries, that heart also feels loss so much more. You'b lost so many that you love; some here, some yet t'come." He gestured first to the vault around them, and then to the larger Hub and beyond. "So many more…" His voice broke at remembering many hardworking days giving way to nights holding a sobbing lover, mourning many lifetimes of lives lost.

Refocusing on the now and here, Tylo took a deep breath, and steeled himself to reassure, "Knew my time here'b short; why risk adding even one bit of pain t'you? Better the stranger passes, than both suffer odd introduction and harder good-bye."

While Jack didn't know any of the details behind the feelings shared, he could easily tell that the watery eyes, faraway look and broken breath were not functions of any bodily pain in this moment. This unknown person before him carried a familiar knowledge and burden—one beyond his apparent years and frailty. One of more than a single lifetime. One who had seen too much suffering for even one. Much as Jack had.

Alone together, actually talking, Jack finally recognized the strength and affection Tylo had, both for him directly, and for whatever life they had- would have together. This man wasn't curious about the time agent, or enamored by his mystery. In fact, Tylo seemed already to know the man he was—or at least much more than most people in the universe—and loved him still. Enough to stay with him, to fight for him, and now to seek him out across the centuries.

He reached out and took Tylo's withered hand, and confessed as much to himself as the other man, "Just so you know, the farmer can appeal to me as much as the fighter."

"Won't remember that advice…," Tylo smiled weakly, as if recalling their yet-to-happen first meeting.

"But _I_ will remember the courage you're capable of; I'll know when I see you." _Now that I know to look for you…_ But for now, he understood the depth of feelings did not change the brevity of their time together. "You knew this trip would kill you."

"Then or now… _most_ die at some point," Tylo reminded, before shifting again uncomfortably.

In choosing between the two ways to go, Jack guessed that, if the settlement was as near to defeat as Tylo had indicated, this death was much preferable to what They would likely do. In fact, Jack was probably the only person in this world who could appreciate just how little debate that decision required. Anything was preferable…

"Got t'see you again, for the first time," Tylo added to the calculation, with a guilty smile. Tentatively, he held out his good hand toward Jack, as if trying to reinforce that connection.

Understanding the uniquely common frame of reference this man had with him, and knowing what he'd sacrificed to save his people, Jack smiled and reached out to offer that small mercy.

Only on extending his own arm to match Tylo's odd angle did he realize suddenly, "You can't see at all, can you? That's why you've been in here so long; you can't find your way out."

"Could feel it easy enough," Tylo sighed, but didn't lower his hand. Using Jack's speech to better locate his face, he actually moved it closer. "Can't stand; too weak."

Every moment of interaction with this intimate stranger seemed to reveal some new, surprising and appealing strong and stubborn quality. And so Jack took the almost on-target hand, and led it the last few inches. Cool but strong, the palm melded to him, and the course thumb caressed his cheek. Tylo turned his face toward Jack's, closed his eyes and exhaled, the first genuine relief he'd shown since his arrival in their midst.

As Jack leaned in to begin, or revisit, a greater physical connection with this fellow warrior, Tylo gasped, his body stiffened and then he sank, curling and grunting, into the suspendered shoulder.

"Tylo? Owen!" Jack cradled the farmer, whose entire form had tensed into a silently screaming knot. "Tylo? Tylo, breathe!"

As the team came running from various corners of the Hub, Tosh and Ianto were turned back by Hub alarms that began shouting for their own attention.

"This one's off the charts!" shouted Ianto, as they typed feverishly at the consoles digitally gesticulating.

"And it's already outlasted the others, and isn't letting up," Tosh added. "This is something new…"

* * *

Tosh joined the others in the medical bay, where Jack sat over the belabored breathing of their visitor, having shifted from hostile to hovering in just minutes. She whispered her update to everyone, "We know that it's still increasing in intensity, and now frequency and duration. Something's changed fundamentally in the progression; and it won't take much more change before it become really dangerous."

"We also know that the Rift energy is disappearing, and the flow seems to be strongest around us and the Harbour," added Ianto. Still no resolution to the growing body of unsettling evidence.

Jack stroked Tylo's damp forehead, taking in the update as the machines here beeped weakly in time with the slow rise and fall of his chest.

"Jack," whispered Gwen, as she placed her hand on his shoulder on all their behalf. He had shifted from disinterest to fixation, but in doing so hadn't helped them make any progress on the larger issue. "We need a break, something…"

He nodded, and ran his hand over his face. Shifting slightly closer to the prone figure, he stroked that cheek, and implored, "Tylo, help us stop this. It will help me today, and maybe help save you."

Tylo blinked up at him with blind eyes, a slight smile on his face despite the obvious discomfort. " _That_ ship already sailed," he reminded.

"Ship!" Gwen shouted, and was mis-heard by most everyone, who stared at her sudden and rare-ish profanity. She didn't apologize, but instead ran to the tech stations, realizing, "We forgot about one of the most regularly changing parts of the area… We and the Rift are on the harbour."

The following team members' blank faces stared at her turn to the obvious.

"We forgot to check the ships!" she explained. "Never mind building construction and business closures; how many different sailing ships come in and out every week? We need to check the harbour traffic."

Eyes lighting up at the new lead, Tosh sat and started pulling up lists of vessels in, and recently in the Cardiff waterfront. "I'm accessing the Harbourmaster's records now. Thankfully, the port's not too busy of late," she summarized as she typed. "Even removing those ships that are no longer in port, or arrived well after the Rift Activity spiked, there are still a few dozen possibilities."

The monitors showed a long list of ship names and information; and the Team sighed collectively, another potentially long and fruitless goose chase.

"Well that was easy!" exclaimed Gwen conversely, slapping Toshiko on the shoulders in hearty congratulations. "Nicely done!"

Not one other person joined her celebration, as they stared at her again, still incredulous.

"You don't see it, do you?" she chided with no small disappointment, hands landing briefly on her hips before pointing to one entry on the ledger.

Everyone leaned in and squinted, trying to make out the source of her newfound optimism.

The closest and quickest read, Ianto shared the info aloud for everyone, " _MS Marathon_ , berth 8 South."

Several sets of eyes glanced toward the medical bay, through the good Captain, who had clenched his eyes and lowered his head on hearing their guest's repeated reference.

"Coincidence?" asked Owen, somewhat rhetorically.

Shaking her head as she shot Jack a told-you-so look, Gwen surmised, "He's been trying to help us all along…"


	6. Canary in a Cargo Ship

"The _Marathon_ is a smallish container ship, in port for unspecified repairs and modernization. It is represented by Philipps  & Sons,(1) a small maritime services agency, 'catering to all your international freight forwarding, customs house brokerage, stevedoring and ship's agent needs…'"

Tosh had radioed a full rundown to Gwen and Ianto in the SUV, as they sped toward the registered address for the single point of contact beyond the ship itself. That the little firm was also distantly connected to the web of shell corporations funding the unusual Plass grouting, had only made the team that much more keen on paying a visit, before moving on the vessel.

As might be expected with any such intrigue, the address was in an area across the harbor that had seen better days. The building was unremarkable and uninviting. Also as usual, Torchwood didn't stand on such appearances and pleasantries.

"Thank you for coming," a gravelly voice said as they entered with only the lightest knock. "But as you can see, I'm very busy," it continued, clearly suggesting they should go away.

"We just have a few questions for you," Gwen persisted, as they located the non-welcome's source: an ancient-looking man nestled amidst piles of paper, ledgers and files on the sole desk at the back of the small room brimming with other such piles of bureaucracy.

Looking up for the first time, and seeing their rugged attire, he suggested they go somewhere else specifically. "There's a staffing agency just on the corner; docks, ships and the lot hire from there."

"We're not here looking for work," the Constable corrected, holding up her badge. "We're here to speak with one of the Misters Philipps."

The look of irritation didn't shift from the man's face, as he nonetheless set down his pen, and closed the journal in which he'd been writing. "There hasn't been a Philipps involved in the firm for some time," he nodded toward fading photos along the interior wall. "I am Mr Blaine, the sole remaining proprietor. And, as such, I remain _very_ busy…"(2)

Matching his civil doggedness, Gwen pretended to flip through her notepad boredly, and explained, "In the course of a routine investigation, the ship… the _Marathon_ has come up. Your company is the agent of record for that ship, are you not?"

"That is a matter of clear public record," he reminded.

"Have you met the crew?" she continued, matter-of-factly.

"I greeted the captain on arrival, and helped arrange transport for him and the crew to their temporary assignments. The ship will be undergoing refurbishment for some time."

"What about the dockworkers?"

"I was not hired to oversee the actual labor on the vessel. You'll have to speak to the respective service providers."

"Well then, have you at least been in contact with the ship's owners?"

His eyes narrowed, the first change since her questioning began. "Not in person; but I've communicated with a representative by correspondence, and all the paperwork is in order."

"And as long as their check cleared, you didn't really care beyond that"

"Funds transfer, yes. And you make this sound like some sort of problem; but what you've described is not uncommon. If you're so curious about the construction, you're welcome to inquire with the dockyard. And of course, I'll let the owners know of your concerns." He reached for the rotary phone on the desk beside him.

"You'll do no such thing," Gwen instructed firmly, but without malice. "Fix Mr Blaine a drink, please, Ianto..."

The man looked at her with disinterested irritation, clearly more annoyed at their persistent interruption than frightened by their smiling menace.

Ianto moved to the tidy tea service set on a side table, reaching into his pocket for a handy stash of retcon, as Gwen moved around the desk, inviting their host, "Let's have a look at the files on the _Marathon_ , while we all have a nice cup…"(3)

The small camera in the corner showed as much reaction to the offer as did the still-smirking 'guest' in his own office.

* * *

"Ready!" announced Owen, holstering his gun as he topped the stairs into the central chamber. At the same moment, Jack approached the tech stations while Tosh prepared a kit of portable sensors and other tools.

The trio looked at one another, each surprised by at least one other's apparent expectation to be on the raid team.

The doctor grunted first, nodding toward the technician's scanning stations. "Who's gonna watch the sensors if you take off?"

Indignant, she scoffed at all of his assumptions. "There's nothing here you can't read into a radio, while remaining to _care… for… your… patient_."

"I can't very well be at the switchboard and his side when they both go off at once, now can I?" he fired back, before dropping his voice and avoiding Jack's gaze. "Besides, there's nothing more I can do for him but ease the pain…"

That admission bled much of the quick fire from Tosh, even as she looked to Jack with a reminder that, "We don't know what we're up against at the ship. And you heard Gwen: every one of us who can come..."

 _Who's it going to be?_ their looks silently asked their Captain.

"We all go," he surprised them both. "We know that Tylo is affected by the changes in Rift energy. Call it 'sensitivity' or 'temporal sunburn,' he's a portable detector. And he may know other details that could be helpful."

"You're not suggesting…"

The Captain swallowed, "He'd say himself that, his fate's sealed already; why not use whatever advantage we have to resolve this…" _And keep him close_ , he didn't feel the need to say aloud.

"Jack," Owen's medical training tried to remind them, "he's not likely to survive a bumpy commute, much less a potentially hostile situation."

"But, staying here will somehow save him? We need him; and I'm not leaving him here to die." Harkness handed down his final word as he turned toward his office. _Not when there's a slim chance yet..._ "Get him ready to move; I'll be there in a moment."

For a moment, they stared after him, surprised not by his ready-for-action attitude, but by his fast and firm new stance on the farmer.

"His tune sure changed once he knew there'd be a ring in his future…"

"Perhaps we could all learn a little from that honesty about our feelings," Tosh glared before turning to set her equipment to transmit updates to them in the field _._

* * *

"Are you sure it's wise to just drive up in full daylight?"

"That wireless camera was so out of place in that Victorian era office," reminded Ianto, "there's no way whoever he's working for can't know we're asking questions. They have to expect we'd be coming to the ship next."

Even without that likely forewarning to their targets, an approach under the cover of darkness would have been preferable for a raid. But no one needed to say that the semi-conscious figure Jack was cradling, and the any-moment Rift energy spike meant they didn't have the luxury to wait regardless.

As the dark truck pulled up between the gangway and the shore office beside the ship, they could see a half-dozen workers moving around on the wharf, the deck and in between. Scaffolding topped the bridge island at the rear of the stumpy ship, as a weather-beaten shore crane lowered a pallet of materials into the open hold. If the too perfect paperwork in the antiquated office hadn't raised their suspicions, that the _Marathon_ was the only vessel in the shipyard showing any activity this late Saturday morning, only cemented it.

"Are you sure you can get him onboard?" asked Gwen, as she selected the final stock documents for her faux case file. "Even with Ianto and I occupying the builders with the 'missing special needs child fascinated by ships' story, that's still a long jaunt up that ramp…"

"The truck will block us enough, if you can get them to turn away from the windows," assured Jack, as his sure gaze shifted to the shivering Tylo in his arms.

At the opposite door, Tosh had unholstered her tazer, just in case their leader's confidence was misplaced, or needed supporting. And, between them, Owen grimaced as he felt the farmer's burning forehead.

"Are you sure you want to do this to _him_?" pressed Gwen, making the focus of her concern more clear.

"We don't have much time," Jack reminded flatly.

With a quick round of sighs and nods, Gwen and Ianto exited the front seats, and hailed the nearby group of workers in coordinating worksuits, neckerchiefs and hard hats. With the confident flash of her badge and gesture to the file folder, she was promptly escorted into the nearby trailer, clearing the wharf immediately around the open ship's hatch and gangway. Ianto continued along the edge of the dock, not entirely pretending to inspect the space between the ship and dock, while also glancing about for other attentive eyes.

With a surreptitious nod of all clear from him, Ianto's trio of colleagues slid out of the SUV and up ramp into the ship.

"So we're in," whispered Tosh, as they quickly turned down a side corridor at their first opportunity. The hatch and main passages to it were bound to be busy; better to avoid them when possible, as they searched for their possible and unfamiliar target.

"Stick to plan for now," instructed Harkness. They had reasoned that whatever was being done on the ship, was likely happening in it, rather than to it. Not the bridge, not the engines, not the exterior; but in the hold. The crane they'd seen lowering a tarped something into the largest place on the ship only bolstered the theory. And the relative lack of other activity anywhere else they could hear or see as they moved deeper into the ship, also suggested they needn't look elsewhere yet.

Moving in that general direction, Harkness paused at each doorway and intersection, and slowly turned in place, watching Tylo's semi-conscious reaction to the possible Rift Energy around them. Each time, he caressed the clammy face and whispered an apology, before nonetheless moving them off in the direction that seemed to bring his care the most discomfort.

Just ahead of and just behind their leader, Tosh and Owen shot one another disapproving looks at this use of the human compass. For all their own differences, neither could understand why Jack would do this to someone he may, and certainly would eventually, care about. If he'd do this to a future lover, what wouldn't he do a friend or colleague…

In short order, they'd navigated, by formula and farmer, to a hatch leading into the cavernous, and largely empty, hold. With Owen standing watch at the door they'd entered, Tosh, Jack and Tylo moved quickly to a stack of crates toward one corner. Tylo groaned and writhed, eyes fluttering as he seemed to wake to, or because of, a growing pain.

"Jack," Tosh whispered, in critical plea for their visitor.

"He's done what he needs to," Harkness assured, gently sitting him against the crates, and covering him with own trench coat. His expression showed more compassion than did his actions.

"Someone's coming," stage whispered Owen, sliding in beside them, as they all crouched still.

Two joking workers in matching company outfits entered the hold and headed directly across the empty space. As one slapped the other's arm about twenty yards in, they both suddenly vanished, and their laughter also was abruptly cut off. The cargo hold was again empty.

But the Torchwood lurkers knew better. Another round of shared looks confirmed they had found their objective. Owen nodded up to series of catwalks along the wall more than one story up; Tosh indicated that she'd work down the opposite side of this deck, leaving Jack to approach their target most directly.

"Cantor?" Tylo whispered, weakly clutching at Harkness' arm, having apparently understood what was silently being planned.

"I have to go," Jack assured immediately, taking the hand in both his own. "I have to check this out; but I'll be right back."

"Promise," he was reminded.

"Promise."

Plan and commitments made, the trio split up with quick but cautious movements. Owen headed up a ladder, while Tosh sprinted low to some pallets along the opposite wall. As they reached their starting points, and with a final brush of Tylo's cheek, Harkness stood and strode directly toward the spot the two workers had disappeared, and did so himself.

Owen and Tosh gaped from their respective lookouts, somehow not surprised at the brash act. In concert, they scurried forward at differing altitudes, for better views and answers.

* * *

The heavy cloth jingled slightly as Jack walked through its folds, before his vision quickly opened onto a much different scene in the center of the hold: in the space loomed a large, complex-looking machine connected to several smaller work stations at the near end. Further down the hold, an eerie and active glow lit the silhouette of several workers obviously attending to the immense apparatus. And all this was surrounded and hidden by a long, coppery curtain hung from floor to ceiling, through a break in which he'd just passed.

Noting the extent of this literal cloak, Harkness continued right up to the nearest worker monitoring something on a complex, if cobbled-together control board. "This is all… very impressive," he commended the man, slapping him firmly on the shoulder.

"Thanks," the man said out of polite instinct, before looking up to his admirer. "What?! Sir, you can't be here. How did you get on board?" He stood up, and raised his voice in genuine concern for the workplace trespasser.

"Hey!" shouted a colleague, also noticing the not-like-the-others presence. "Mate, this is an active work space; you can't be here." He raised a radio, reporting the uninvited arrival beyond the few other scarved staffers who looked up from their work at the commotion.

"And yet, here I am," continued Harkness, moving over to the nearest massive piece of the sprawling contraption on which several other men and women were working. "What is this?" he asked them all.

"Stay away from the machine; it's dangerous!" another worker shouted to him, moving to herd him away from it.

"But what does it _do_?" he persisted.

"It— It— It's… none of your business," she non-answered. "Why are you here?"

"No offence," Harkness continued as he pushed past her to continue looking over and tapping on various humming parts, and shimmering pipes, "but these components, and those contents are way beyond the experience of this or any other crew on Earth. So, it's really urgent that I speak to whomever's really in charge here." He turned with a flourish, and looked about expectantly at the still anxious workers.

As Gwen and Ianto were led through the curtain with understandable "what the-?" looks on their faces, another corner of the nearby space fluttered open, and revealed yet another, if larger and more sophisticated work station.

"Excellent! L-l-l-l-l-l-l!" a simultaneously shrill and gravelly voice shouted. "A legal enforcement officer, _just_ when one is needed to handle an incident of industrial _espionage_."

The Torchwood members finally tracked the voice to a glowing green light attached to a large, glistening, darker green… slug perched on an ornate pillar in front of the command-esque console. Only this crescent moon-shaped creature had small arms, a human-looking face, and a tongue all gesticulating in odd excitement at the situation.

" _Despite_ my attempts at discretion," it continued, as if anyone had asked, "and despite my _considerable_ effort not to disrupt the parochial social systems of this _backwater_ world, still this spy comes snooping to _steal_ my trade secrets." It shuddered with rage, until a worker stepped over and squeezed a trickle of liquid over its head. The 'shower' seemed to calm it considerably.

Gwen gaped at Jack, hoping his amused look meant he had some idea who, or what, they were dealing with him. That he covered an apparent snicker and shook his head indicated he didn't, or at least wouldn't say so.

"Sorry," she finally managed to eek out, attempting to respond to the alien's remarkably coherent… charges. "Whilst I am a constable, I'm not here investigating _him_."

"That's right," the creature seemed to recall with exaggerated reflection, before shifting again to almost gleeful anger, "Because you've been working _with_ him, prying into my business operations! Seize them! _All_ of them!"

Without hesitation, the workers nearest each Torchwood member grabbed an arm, and held them in place. Except those who had descended on Owen and Tosh, as they were promptly marched through the curtain to join their fellow prisoners.

As they each reacted to the drastic change of status and scenery, Ianto struggled in the grips of his captors. "Can't you see what that is? Are you really going to follow the instructions of that alien?" While the workers didn't respond, he did manage to grab hold of one's scarf; and as the wrestling pulled it off, a blinking collar was revealed underneath it.

Seeing it, Jack swiped the red fabric from one of his captor's uniform, exposing an identical device.

"Oooooh," the slug squealed, "you'll find the teleceptor collars are just as effective at influencing their minds to my instructions, as the refractory net is at fooling your perceptions and sensors." It gestured at the curtain around them, before beckoning them all brought closer, as it continued to gloat. "The collars are much more expensive than slave labor would be; but having the natives perceive me and the work as nothing more than a regular day on the job is much less suspicion-raising, and so more cost-effective in the long-run. In fact, they're thrilled by all the overtime, and it makes having to interact with your species' undeniable grotesqueness _somewhat_ more tolerable..."

It popped a handful of wriggling somethings into its mouth, as if it to provide comfort. It chewed with a gusto, as its temper flared again despite a fresh misting from its attendant human. "Tolerable, that is, at least until a team with _advanced_ temporal knowledge show up, turn out to have a lab _under_ my collection grid, and aren't fooled by my various, _ingenious_ misdirections! I should have known others would have caught wind of this unique opportunity…" Its eyes squinted, as it gave each a harder once over. " _Who_ do you work for? Galatron Mining?(4) Magellanic?(5) Sent to jump _my_ claim? Sabotage _my_ rig? I think not!" It shivered in rage, despite a fresh wetting.

"Sorry, your 'rig'?" Jack interrupted the tirade to rejoin the conversation, his look finally shifting from smug to surprised. "What is it you're doing here?"

"Granted, it isn't state-of-the-art, as I've had to make do with primitive materials and workforce; but it's still _obviously_ a temporal energy extraction and containment assembly." It gawked back at them with disgust at their lack of recognition and admiration for its accomplishment.

"A what?" asked Owen, understanding each term individually, but likely not alone in not grasping what they all meant together.

"It captures and bottles the limitless temporal energy from your 'Rift"—one of the universe's most rare, and therefore most valuable energy sources… And it's _mine_! _I've_ put in the investment and work here; and _I'll_ be seeing the profits from its sale. L-l-l-l-l-l-l." It wriggled in delight.

Ianto turned to look at the machine and deduce: multiple cables coming in from a collection grid in their Plass; funneling to large, light-seething containers at the far end toward the bridge; and above that, the only visible scaffolding on a ship allegedly under major rebuild—hiding a transmission antennae. "He's built a 'tempetrol' station. He's a broker in Rift Energy as a fuel source."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Some accounts of the apocryphal run from Marathon to Athens name the Greek runner as Philippides.
> 
> 2\. Intended as a possible connection to Margaret Blaine, the senior human member of MI5, replaced by Blon-Fel Fotch Passamer-Day Slitheen. Deposed from the Prime Minister's cabinet (DW1.4, _Aliens of London_ ), she later ran for Lord Mayor of Cardiff (DW1.11, _Boom Town_ ).
> 
> 3\. Amnesia pill first introduced in the Torchwood pilot, and used throughout the series.
> 
> 4\. Exploitative interstellar mining corporation represented by a similar character, and first introduced with Sixth Doctor in _Vengeance on Varos_ (22.02). Anyone recognize the unsavory species? ;-)
> 
> 5\. Another deep space resource extraction company, whom the Fourth Doctor, Romana and K9 encountered in _The Ribos Operation_ (16.1).


	7. Fin

"Well aren't you the bright one?" the slug squealed at Ianto's deduction of the machine's bottling and business function. "And clever name in your language: 'tem-petrol'; I like that!" It clicked a few buttons on a small handset it held. "I've just personally copyrighted it. You'll have to be faster if you expect to compete…," it advised.

Pulling them back to the underlying commodity crisis, Gwen stepped toward it, astounded, "What right do you have to come in and make off with this energy?"

The slug looked taken aback, perhaps by her audacity to criticize its venture, but fired back nonetheless, "Well it's not like you natives have any use for it, do you? Beside you lot, most creatures on your planet have no idea that this kind of energy exists at all, much less where it is! I'm doing the universe a service, keeping it from going to waste on this pathetic rock." It was dripping with water and self-righteous disdain.

Undaunted, Gwen pushed along another line of attack. "Does it not bother you that your bottling is already harming some of our people? And that one mistake by your or your unwitting staff could create a catastrophic rupture in the Rift? It could destroy everything on the planet, including _you_!"

Though its face did flinch slight at the risk she suggested to itself, it grinned and wiggled its tongue at her. "Ooooh, l-l-l-l-l-l-l-l… I do like your spirit; but don't think I don't know the risk of this kind of resource extraction." It shook its handset, explaining, "Profits, second; protecting profiteer, first."

Having fallen silent and sullen since learning the enterprise's purpose, Jack lunged forward suddenly, surprising his handlers and their host. As the team followed his lead with their own captors, he managed to reach the shrieking slug and rip the prized handset and the vocalizing device from it. Stomping the latter underfoot, he heard the tussles behind him quickly end as its control over the human workers died with the green box.

Surprised, but still instinctively able to flee, the creature leapt to the floor between its suddenly confused former attendant's legs. Moving remarkably fast for its lack of legs, it crawled under a control panel before Jack could get past the startled other human. Grumbling some now unintelligible unpleasantries, it slapped several buttons on the panel's underside with five, nearly simultaneous results: alarms began to cry out from all around the large room, a stream of changing alien symbols appeared on all the monitors, a broad, bright beam of shifting light shot skyward from the scaffolding atop the ship's bridge, the giant, enveloping curtain dropped to the floor, and the slug slid through a trapdoor in the floor that closed quickly behind it.

Everyone avoiding the falling fabric, Harkness' team tried to corral the thoroughly disorientated and frightened workers, ensuring they were not a danger or in danger, and not wanting them to get away without removing the alien technology, having a thorough debriefing, and then partaking in an extra special cup of tea.

His prey escaped, the Captain turned back to the machine spilling its spoils into the atmosphere, or more likely to an orbiting tanker starship. It was not the time travel mechanism he'd worried it was, and hoped it might be, for Tylo's sake. There would be no stopping the selfless farmer before he made the fatal trip; no returning to their defense so Tylo wouldn't have to travel; no saving him then...

And now, as the energy transmission and on-screen countdowns ended, the alarms changed and bands of crackling energy swept over the tempetrol rig, and angry sparks spewed from various work stations. The smaller devices were clearly fried by the self-destruct systems; the larger machine, now empty, crumbled to scrap and dust—protecting the proprietary secrets of their loss-cutting alien entrepreneur.

As silence finally fell after the fierce, few moments of overwhelming cacophony, a single, small, steady tone remained, echoing in the large space. Torchwood and workers alike peered around nervously, not sure what this remaining signal might signal for them. Its sonic punctuation to the passed destruction brought everyone to a silent halt.

Scanning the room quickly, it was Jack who first sorted through the ringing ears and pumping adrenaline to track it to the PDA on Owen's belt.

He was already sprinting across the deck when Gwen noticed the gnarled hand just visible from behind the crates at the far end of the hold. When she and the rest of the Hub team caught up, they found Jack kneeling beside Tylo, gently holding his opposite, good hand.

Tylo's quiet eyes stared down at where he had shoved off the draped coat and roughly rolled up his own sleeve, exposing a final, silent reminder of his mission and Jack's promise: COME BACK. After and despite everything, his last action had remained focused on his future-his and Jack's.

Carefully, Jack pulled Tylo to him, and gently rocked him reflexively, if redundantly, as if to sleep. His face showed no emotion beyond the welling tears in his eyes, as he whispered, "I know it's a long, hard run to get there; but, I can't wait to love you…"

* * *

As arts festival attendees on the Plass marveled at the light show above the Harbour, across town, an older, white-haired and ascot-wearing man also looked into the Cardiff sky. Seeing the pillar of light surging into the heavens, he smiled wryly, turned and entered his antique clock store.(1) At long last, this was the final sign that it was time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Recognize this character and locale from _End of Days_ (1.13)?
> 
> Confession: Sometimes, not always, I imagine what the soundtrack to a particular scene I'm writing might be. The final shipboard one here is is one of those, and the song is Mario Spinetti's "When You Say My Name." Going even further into TVland, and off-emotion to a likely Barrowman blooper reel moment, I can also picture the actor playing Tylo and John breaking into "A little fall of rain" (from _Les Mis_ ) as the director says "cut!"


End file.
